


Clouds Don't Part for the Sun

by megapen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU where Arthur has magic, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megapen/pseuds/megapen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur was born with magic. The struggles of his youth dealing with the curse that was stowed upon him at birth follow him into knighthood, and eventually into rebirth. When Merlin reveals that he is also a sorcerer, Arthur has a decision to make. To reveal the secret he's lived with his entire life in front of the person he loves most, saving the very essence of humanity in the process, or conceal the gift that haunted him once more. <br/>*This is going to be a multi-chapter fic, transitioning from canon era to Arthur's rebirth into Modern Era. AU where Arthur has magic, and Merlin and Arthur are the soul mates they were always meant to be.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Etched in Stone

The boy with the blue eyes and golden locks that carried the weight of so many on his then frail shoulders was born with sorrow in his veins. The presence of a hood and scythe loomed over the room when his soul bounced off the walls for the first time, illuminating the hands that reached for him with a gray pallor of the clouds themselves that hung near the horizon. A cry was heard, whom it belonged to was never identified, and hands were held and lips pressed tightly together, the midwives not wishing to burden the small infant with the despair that would soon find the entirety of the kingdom, the entirety of those who had expected three glimmering crowns to emerge onto a grand balcony instead of two. They did not wish to trouble the boy with more than he was already expected to carry, tasks and destinies set forth in a straight, orderly line in some minds, and jagged peaks and drops in others. The boy was expected to do great things, wonderful, courageous and remarkable tasks, most impossible to imagine and even more impossible to perform. It was only fair that such a hero begin his journey with such horror. 

News spread after that bittersweet day, cries resounding in the streets and mournful silence taking over the halls that once held tremendous hope and life. On the day that the boat was set out, an eerily lifelike shape set on the vulnerable wood, the blue-eyed boy did not cry, and he did not feel for the woman who had died so bravely for his lungs to catch the air. He did not see the silent, vengeful tears of his father hiding in the shadow of his crown and he did not register the churning of the waves lapping at the shore of the lake that held his genes. But he did feel something stirring inside of his small, new body. His not yet developed mind could feel the ancient blood infused into his skin flow through his core, the mystic presence in his soul that was now rejected by so many brimming at his minuscule fingertips. He did not know it yet, but the boy with the blue eyes and golden locks would do great things. He would reach bitter defeats and love people that would love just as hard back. He would thrust gleaming swords into the air, high enough to graze the stars and he would mourn over blood spilled before he was able to seal it back in. 

This presence was a part of him, no matter how much he would wish it away.


	2. Simple Enchantment

Arthur was barely able to look over the desk of his father when he dropped his dinner glass at the table without setting his palm on it. There were guests in the room then, all sporting fur lined coats and shirts, gazing with ravenous hunger for power at the man he had so admired his entire life sitting next to him. The event had happened quickly. One minute, he was eyeing the platters being carried in by nervous looking servants and even more timid looking cooks, and the next, he was angry with the supposed enemies of Camelot. He hated the way they looked at his father, as if he were something to be brushed out of the way, and he hated that these fur cloaked barbarians were sitting in his castle, the space where he was supposed to be safe from all harm and all those who were a threat to the throne. The rage built up inside him, boiling up to the last layer of his youthful skin, until he felt that if he did not move in the next few seconds, he would burst open and launch himself at the barbarians. Then he heard the clang.

It was not particularly loud, and Uther did not notice the noise, but a woman standing next to the table, a servant, did. She came up beside him during his father’s speech to the barbarians, filled with talk of peace and the hopeful proposal of alliance and friendship between the two lands represented in the room. Resting a gentle hand on his shoulder, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, voice shaking, “You must not do that again, sire.” 

Arthur looked up at her, eyebrows knit with scared concern, but she merely held her gaze level, eyes widening to emphasize the sincerity of her words. He did not understand the severity of his actions then, he did not realize that had Uther noticed the goblet flying from the table, Arthur would have been locked away to be dealt with in manners that would incapacitate or even kill him. But he understood the fear in the servant woman’s eyes, and he nodded slowly in response as she waited for Uther to finish his speech and raise his goblet to the air. Then, the servant slyly picked up the goblet from the floor and slipped it to Arthur so that he would not be singled out without a glass to hold, and slipped to the edge of the room once more as if she never left. 

“To peace,” Uther declared solemnly, crown poised high and mighty on his head.

“To peace,” Arthur muttered quietly in unison with the rest of the room, the woman’s haunting words still ringing in his mind. 

Those barbarians he had feasted with did try to break through the kingdom’s defenses, and they did try to take down the King and his heir despite the peace professed by his father, but Camelot’s knights were too strong for them. Arthur remembered crouching behind a stack of armor while the knights were preparing for battle, most of them stone faced and visibly shaking as they sharpened their swords and straightened the metal hanging over their bodies. They had all gathered in the center of the armory as Uther spoke to them, fear evident in his voice, but bravery encompassing his words. Some knights nodded in acceptance, and some stood very still, taking in the possibility of death with silence. They all knew that many of them would not live to see the next dawn and many of them would kill with vengeance that their mothers warned them against as children, yet they all were willing to serve their king with the utmost respect and devotion. They were willing to protect his father at the cost of their own lives. That was when Arthur knew he would lead them one day, and he would not be the one trembling with nervous eyes, but standing in Uther’s place.

It was a few years before Arthur found himself brimming with enchantment once again, and this time it was not with a goblet that flew off the table in the middle of King Uther’s speech, but the first time he sparred, clenching a wooden sword in one hand and a small shield in the other. He was ten years old and his father insisted that he begin training officially, instead of mimicking moves he had seen the other knights practicing in his chambers. He was appointed a teacher, Langston, one of his father’s most esteemed knights, and they practiced in the courtyard where the other knights trained. Langston had walked up to him and handed him the wooden sword and looked into Arthur’s anxious eyes. 

“This is not a weapon.”

Arthur had looked at him, confused and bewildered that a knight would say something like this.

“Yes it is,” Arthur said cockily, “you’re a knight, you should know that.”

Langston had ripped the sword out of Arthur’s hand, causing him to jerk forward and fall to his hands and knees. Langston had stood before him, clutching the sword once more. 

“This is not a weapon,” he repeated icily. “This is an extension.”

Arthur remained silent, looking up at the knight with awe as he held the sword in one hand and held his other hand out to help Arthur up. Once standing, Langston handed the sword back to the golden haired boy and wielded his own wooden sword. He took his stance, and motioned for Arthur to take his own, which he clumsily did, one foot wobbling in front of the other. Langston began to circle around Arthur and the prince did the same, mirroring Langston’s motions and intricate footwork. 

Then, Langston moved the sword in front of him, a clean thrust that narrowly missed Arthur’s exposed side. He proceeded in flourishing the sword with such artfulness and grace that it did not look like a sword, but a large arm cleanly slicing through the air, dancing among the bugs and breaths that protruded it, and suddenly Arthur understood. The sword was not a weapon, but an augmentation of himself. With one final wave, Arthur was knocked off of his feet and fell to the ground, his own sword flying out of his hand and Langston’s foot finding its way to Arthur’s chest. A sharp tip lay gently against the base of Arthur’s throat and Langston peered down at the heir breathing heavily before him.

“This is not a weapon.”

Arthur nodded quickly and gulped as Langston removed his foot from Arthur’s heaving chest. 

The lesson had continued with so many bruises and falls that Arthur could no longer keep track of how many times his back made contact with the ground. Though he understood the core meaning of Langston’s philosophies, he could not quite grasp them enough to perform them physically. 

During one spar, Arthur had become so tired and his bones so weary, that he could not raise his sword above his shoulders even though that was where he had to hold it the majority of the fight due to Langston’s immense height. He was close to defeat once more, and such a strong will to simply give up and drop the sword came over him, that he came close to actually doing it. But suddenly, the same rage and all engulfing feeling that had embodied him at the feast all those years ago arose in him, filling his limbs with a fiery sensation that knocked his sword out of his hand and levitated it in the air, aiming towards Langston’s shocked face. Arthur had not noticed that it was gone, but controlled it, mind focused on the wooden exterior of the sword and moving all of his willpower into the object until it swung over Langston’s head and knocked him to the ground, head lolling back. The sword dropped to the ground beside him with a dull thud and Arthur stood over his unconscious body, stunned. 

“Langston?” he whispered. 

No response came. 

Arthur scrambled over to the knight’s head and started tapping lightly on his forehead in an attempt to wake him. When his eyelids did not flutter open, the prince backed away from the scene, sprinting out of the courtyard and straight into the same servant woman who had noticed the goblet incident years earlier. Tears brimmed his young eyes and the servant woman knelt down to his height.

“Child, what happened?” 

Arthur bit his lip, debating whether or not to confide in this servant woman who seemed to always pop up just in the right moments. There was no way that he would be able to defend himself on his own should Langston tell his father what happened, and he would surely be killed if he were found out. He liked to think that Uther would have some sympathy for him, but he knew that if he simply ignored it, it would be sending a message to all others like him that it was okay to practice such blasphemous actions. He was doomed to live a life shut away and out of the people’s eyes. So, decision made, he took the servant’s hand in his own and dragged her to Langston. 

As soon as she saw him on the ground she told Arthur to go and get Gaius. He tried to protest, telling her that he would not know what to tell him, but she interjected sharply, “Sire, I know I don’t have the power to order you to do anything, but for your own good, please go and get Gaius.” 

Closing his mouth, Arthur reluctantly agreed.

Gaius did not ask Arthur any questions, though it looked like he wanted to. The servant woman told Gaius that there was simply an accident and Langston backed into the wall, hitting his head on the stone. It seemed that the old man did not believe that such an experienced knight could be bested by a wall, but he simply pursed his lips and had two servants help carry Langston to his quarters. When the scene had cleared and the swords brought inside, only the servant woman and Arthur remained. She walked over to the prince, who was sitting on the ground, trembling with shock, and knelt down.

“Sire, you must be more careful with your gift.”

“It is not a gift. It’s a curse.”

She shook her head sadly. “No, sire. Only in the eyes of the fearful.”

Arthur burst with rage, his anger focused on the woman in front of him. “How would you know? Are you a sorceress? Perhaps I should have my father execute you!” he shouted, fury directing his every move. 

The servant drew back, now filled with terror at the outburst. She bowed profusely, backing up quickly.

“I-I’m sorry sire. Forgive me. I did not mean to imply such things,” she whispered, her voice weak and shaky. She gave one last long bow before she walked quickly out of the courtyard and into the castle, still shaking. 

The prince pounded his fist on the ground with regret, watching the one person he confided in leave the range of his vision. From then on, he wouldn’t let anyone see the plague that burned inside of him. He would not fall victim to the poison of his afflicted state. If Langston were to remember, he would deny everything. It might cost him his life, thus costing his father a valuable knight, but Arthur was going to lead those knights into battle one day, and nothing was going to stop him.


	3. Doves and Swords

Many years after the occurrence with Langston, Arthur knelt at his father’s feet, adorning newly polished armor and a blood orange cape flowing from the back of his neck to the stone floor of the throne room. There was a solemn air about the room; breezes remained tucked outside of the castle until only the eerie silence of the company observing the monumental event was heard. He had waited ages for this day, long sleepless nights spent going over moves in his mind, days spent lost in thought about what could have been and what would be. Langston remembered what had happened, but Uther had been convinced that Langston was babbling nonsense. It had been difficult to do, but Uther banished his most faithful knight after hearing the accusations launched at his heir, bringing more guilt into Arthur’s life than he cared to admit. The servant woman did not speak to Arthur after that night, and whenever she passed him in the corridors or was ordered to bring him something, she would stare intently at the floor, never looking into the blue eyes that once held so much fear and magic. He had not had an incident since, and he was grateful. There would be no more covering up his abilities with a mere servant, and there would be no obstacles in his way to rule Camelot the way it was meant to be. 

Now, the servant woman stood in the back of the crowd with most of the lower class servants in the castle, like cooks and stable hands. She did not look at the prince kneeling before Uther, and she gave no indication of fear. Arthur wondered if she would help him if he were to have an incident again, if she would help to cover up his hellish abilities, or if she would turn her head aside and let him defend himself. He liked to think that she would have some sympathy towards him, but after the threat he made, he doubted she would have the courage to speak out against any of the accusations that would be thrown his way. 

That was why when King Uther, the father he looked up to and had so many fears about, called his name and set his sword on both of his shoulders, Arthur became increasingly fearful that the emotion of the event would be enough to coax out another wave of magic, one that would be too powerful to conceal this time. He knew it was a long shot, and he had kept it hidden for so long that there was a slim chance that it would happen now, but he felt something stirring inside of him, and he was aware that control was not something he had in his power. 

He turned around at last, facing the room and rows of people chanting his name. Scanning the crowd, he found Morgana, pride evident in her eyes, and brought his gaze to his father, whose face gave off something different, a sort of pride mixed with a sadness that he could not explain. Perhaps it was the fact that Arthur had grown into the man he always wanted him to be, and that he would not be there to see the crown grace Arthur’s head when the time came to pass it down. The expressions given off by the two people he valued most and the joy swelling in his chest was too much to handle, and minutes later, he felt an instant release, along with a fluttering in his fist. 

A fluttering.

Arthur looked down at his clenched hand that lay dormant at his side, confused and terrified at what he had just produced. His fingers were shoved apart as a small white body materialized in his hand, flapping its wings furiously in an effort to escape his clutches.

There was a dove in his hand, and his father was right beside him. 

The chanting did not cease and a few people in the front row had taken notice of the live object squirming at Arthur’s side. They gazed at their prince with puzzled expressions, ones that did not want to insult the newly dubbed knight and embarrass him in front of half of the castle. He waited until Uther was turning towards one of the servants to order them to begin preparing the feast to release the dove in the most discreet manner possible. He held out one of his hands in front of his mouth and coughed profusely into his fist, bringing the dove behind him and thrusting it into the air, so that the place where it emerged was invisible to the audience. 

It flapped wildly into the air, soaring across the throne room and circling over the heads of countless servants and knights, causing the spectators to point fingers into the air and chatter to the people standing next to them in confusion. Arthur joined in with this, cementing bewilderment onto his face. Uther looked up from speaking to the servant and followed the creature with his eyes, never ceasing to look away until the pure white feathers disappeared out of an open window and was swallowed by the sunlight. 

Fear instantly spread to every point in Arthur’s body when his father walked over to him, foot after careful foot resounding on the stone floor beneath them. He looked over to the servant woman who was standing in the back of the room to see if she was looking, and he saw that she had moved up a couple of rows, now sporting wide eyes and a wavering mouth. She looked back and forth, from Uther to Arthur, and the prince locked eyes with her for a moment, just long enough to see her shake her head subtly and disappear back into the crowd. 

“Arthur,” Uther whispered eerily into his ear, tone icy and distant, “where did that creature come from?”

Arthur swallowed hard, a nervous lump forming in his throat. “I suppose it flew into the window at some point, Father,” he said smoothly back, hiding the fear that screamed silently from under his skin. 

Uther remained quiet for a moment, gazing around at the now attentive spectators, taking in their concerned eyes. “And no one saw it come in?”

“No, Father, I don’t think anyone did,” he replied. Uther gazed at Arthur for a few seconds, but they felt like years. His expression remained neutral and steady, not wishing to give away any emotion that might have been crossing his mind. Then Uther narrowed his eyes at him, causing Arthur to be thrown into a fit of panic. “I mean, I suppose I might have glimpsed it, but did not really make anything of it.”

Uther glared at him once more, and Arthur quickly regained his composure. Then, he stepped in front of his throne to gaze out upon the spectators, his eyes glimmering with suspicion. 

“There is a sorcerer among us,” he declared dangerously, moving his head to sweep the entirety of the room.

Arthur stiffened and a surge of terror bubbled up to his throat. The guards at the entrances were moving forward, weapons at the ready and the people in the audience were beginning to move around in a dazed panic. He could shout out right now that he was responsible, he could save an innocent life with his own words. There would be no execution and no witch hunt and Arthur would stop having to try and hide the curse bestowed upon him at birth. But courage seemed to leave him in that moment and his mouth remained closed and his feet planted firmly into the ground with sorrow filling his heels. 

All of a sudden, a voice piped up from the back of the room. A quivering hand thrust into the air and the servant woman, the woman who had witnessed Arthur’s darkest moments and had the wonderful audacity to hide the truth from everyone in the kingdom, stepped forward into the center of the throne room. 

“It was me, sire.”

Arthur felt all of the air in his body leave. 

There was a stunned silence, and then chaos. Guards threw themselves at the woman, whose name Arthur never quite learned, and pinned her to the ground, a flurry of swords and armor blurring by his vision. She screamed out, terror and blatant agony filling her voice, causing the crowd to back away quickly from the scene. Uther beside him nodded in triumph and turned to his son. 

“You see? No place in Camelot for a sorcerer.”

Arthur could not help but wonder how Uther could be so cruel over a simple dove, a creature that sprouted from his palm simply because of the pure joy that filled him. But perhaps it was true. As the woman was carried out, writhing from the pain of the brute force of the guards and the expectation of an excruciating death, the thought crossed his mind; there truly wasn’t any place in Camelot for a sorcerer. 

 

In the end, she was burned. Her skin was ripped from her bones as flames lapped at the body that once concealed Arthur’s greatest secret from Uther’s rule. She did not cry out and she did not break into hysterics as she was led to the wooden structure on which she would be set alight, stumbling with hunger and defeat. Arthur looked down upon her body as she stood alive for the last time in front of the court. He locked eyes with her, attempting a grateful nod, but it was lost in the fierce glare she gave him, one that was filled with warning. Use this, she seemed to say, do not let them know. 

The kingdom did not know that she was hiding the secret of their heir as the everlasting flames consumed her.


	4. The Servant Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait guys, I've been super busy. Hope you enjoy!

It was funny how years in the castle passed. One year could go by in a flurry of uneventful meetings and hearings, the streets overflowing with surpluses of food and wealth. When it was over, it did not feel like any time had even passed, the happiness felt by the entirety of the kingdom washing away all worries of aging and deadlines. 

Then, there were years like this. Where every day felt like wading through pits of mud and there were skeletons on the street that looked like they could have been people once and miraculously still breathed. Where there weren’t bounties of crops on carts in the streets and children begged to townsfolk, their bony backs pressed up against the walls of buildings. It was years like this that made people doubt their King, and Arthur could not find the power within him to help his people, no matter how much he tried. 

It had only been a year since Uther’s death. Though he was thankful that he was free of the terror of his secret being revealed, Arthur missed his father horribly. He never felt like he was doing anything correctly and he never quite understood how to govern with ease and dignity so well. It was difficult to hide fear in certain situations in order to calm his people, and with the growing illnesses that were overtaking Camelot, Arthur wondered how he ever thought being King would be easy. At least he wasn’t alone in the matter. He had his loyal knights, Gwen, even Gaius.

Then, there was Merlin. 

If someone had told Arthur all those years ago in the square that the scrawny, tall boy in front of him would grow into one of his most trusted and valued friends, he would have laughed in their face. The unafraid newcomer in the city who stood his ground where so many cowered and submitted and was assigned to wait on him hand and foot against Arthur’s will was not someone he would have selected as his closest confidant. He still dropped Arthur’s armor while carrying it and never did quite bring him his food on time. He was clumsy, an idiot, and he had no idea what the concept of privacy was. Yet there was an unexplainable wisdom in Merlin’s eyes when he gazed at Arthur, as if he knew something that Arthur didn’t when they were arguing about Arthur’s schedule or he was yelling at Merlin for being late for the third time that week. Merlin always had a way of telling Arthur silently when he understood, and when he wanted to say something, but for some reason did not have the courage to spit out. It drove him absolutely mad. 

Which was why, when Arthur opened his door when there was a knock and Gaius was standing on the other side of it, the king immediately panicked. His thoughts turned to his manservant and where he had been all day, and then to the disease that had taken up residence in the streets. The old man had been doing a fairly okay job keeping the illnesses under control, but there were a few cases which could not be helped, no matter the circumstance or the amount of money proposed as a bribe.

“Gaius, I didn’t expect you,” Arthur said mildly.

The old man smiled grimly. “Yes, well, as you may have noticed, your servant has been absent today.”

Arthur nodded nonchalantly, trying to suppress the anxious feeling climbing up into his throat. Gaius’ face remained expressionless and Arthur was only left with growing anticipation and fear as to what he had to say about Merlin. “Yes, well, I might have noticed his absence this morning. Where is he, exactly?”

Gaius looked to the ground briefly, then back up to lock eyes with the king. “He’s ill, sire. He’s very ill,” he said, “he has not woken since yesterday afternoon. I fear he has come down with the sickness that is affecting Camelot.”

Arthur’s chest tightened. “You will be able to heal him though, right?” The king said, voice pinched as he tried to hide the worry in his mind. 

“I cannot say.”

The air in his room seemed to go cold and the air in his lungs seemed to leave his body entirely. “What do you mean, Gaius? It’s just an illness, not life threatening. You’re the finest healer Camelot has.”

Gaius took a step forward. “Sire, Merlin is strong in so many ways, more than you know, but he is simply defenseless in a case like this. He is not eating, and he is coughing up more blood with every growing hour. I’m afraid it’s a matter of waiting and hoping now,” he said gently. 

Arthur shook his head in disbelief, running his fingers through his hair. He simply could not accept Gaius’ words. Merlin was a clotpole, yes, a very clumsy clotpole. He was always late for half of his duties and he teased the king with the amount of bravery that any knight would be proud to show. But despite all of his flaws, Arthur was extremely fond of the man. The fact that sickness wracked his body was all too difficult for the king to imagine. 

“Take me to him,” Arthur demanded, his royal duties that had been planned for him that day forgotten and discarded as he pictured his servant lying dormant on a funeral pyre.

 

He was pale. He was very, very pale. Merlin had always been fairly pallid, but his skin was ghostly now, translucent even. Arthur could see every vein and every bone protruding from his form, even the bones in his face had become more apparent. Gaius had said that it had only been about a day since the sickness deemed him unconscious, but in those hours it had done fanatical damage to the servant. 

Gaius pulled a chair to the side of the bed for Arthur to sit on, and then walked over to the small table against the wall of the bedroom. He wet a cloth in the basin of water and laid it gently over Merlin’s forehead. 

“I’ll be inside, if you need me, sire,” Gaius said as he walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. 

It was then that Arthur was able to truly take in Merlin. Here was the man who waited outside of the door while Arthur sat vigil at his father’s body all night, the man who accompanied him on countless trips and quests without question, and the man who saw through his king’s lies and walls. Merlin saw right through him, and no matter how much he wanted to, Arthur could never hide anything from him.

Except for one thing.

In all the years he had known him, Arthur had never let Merlin know about his cursed abilities. He had confided with him many things, but for some reason, he never felt enough trust to let him know about the one thing that bothered Arthur the most. And if Merlin suspected anything, he didn’t show it. Not that he would. Arthur hadn’t had an incident in almost a decade. 

But sometimes he wondered what would happen if he had. If suddenly one day Arthur would get too worked up over paperwork or angry at the slow training of the knights and it would all become too much and his fingers would burst with the magic he stifled so long ago. He pondered whether Merlin would accept him or if he would shun him and expose the king’s secret to the kingdom. It would surely give him satisfaction from the long weeks with countless chores and lugging supplies through forest trails and mountains. He liked to think that Merlin would not do such things, but trust did not come easily to Arthur, and with something that big lying in the depths of the king’s fears, paranoia was common.

He had a conversation about it with Merlin once. Arthur had just finished a load of paperwork and was eating dinner in his quarters, not wishing to join Guinevere or the rest of the court downstairs. Most of the time, Arthur preferred eating in the confines of his room with no one to speak with except for his trusted manservant. It kept his mind off of the stress and pressures of being the ruler of a kingdom. 

Merlin had just set down the king’s tray on the table when Arthur paused for a moment and looked up at the man’s concentrated face. 

“Merlin, do you feel as though I trust you?” Arthur had said.

The servant hesitated, confusion evident on his face as he knit his eyebrows together and took a seat on Arthur’s right. “In what way, exactly?”

“Do you feel as though I…confide in you?”

Merlin bit his lip, presumably thinking about how to word his answer without getting weeks’ worth of stable duties. “More than the other servants, I suppose. You do tend to drag me along on all of your adventures though,” he teased.

“They are not adventures, Merlin, they are quests only fitting for the bravest and strongest of warriors, much like myself,” Arthur retaliated. Merlin simply rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair with triumph twinkling in his eyes. They were silent for a minute, both staring intently at the darkened wood of the richly furnished table in front of them, the crackling of the evening fire echoing off the stone walls of Arthur’s quarters. 

“Really though, Merlin. Do you think I trust in you?” Arthur whispered quietly.

“Do you know what I think? Do I have your permission to tell the truth?”

“I hereby grant it,” Arthur declared jokingly.

“Right then. I think that you’re afraid to trust me. I think that the fact that you’re king gets in the way of you making a friend out of me because you still think that treating me as a lowly servant is the proper thing to do. You push people away because of the stress you are under and that’s part of the reason that you choose to sit in your room to eat dinner instead of feasting with your wife and knights. I have trusted you with my life time and time again, Arthur, and I would give my own life to save yours.”

Arthur nodded slowly, but noticed that Merlin was still on edge, and hesitating to say more. “Go on, Merlin,” he said gently.

The man took a deep breath. “And I think that you should trust me, because I have had your back in so many situations that I cannot bear to count them. I consider you to be my closest friend and I truly…respect you with all of my being.”

Arthur later wondered why Merlin hesitated in the middle of the sentence, but at that moment, he did not think about the shakiness in Merlin’s voice or the pleading in his brilliant blue eyes. He simply thought about the fact that Arthur was indeed able to trust Merlin, and that any doubts he had about the situation could be diminished. 

“Thank you, Merlin. I do trust you, for the record,” he said softly before reaching out his arm and setting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. 

“I just don’t see why you cannot trust yourself.”

Arthur had stood up from his chair then, his dinner still untouched on its tray, and leaned lightly on the edge of the table directly across from Merlin. “Well I have you, don’t I?”

The servant gazed at him, his eyes stern and wise. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said quietly after a few seconds.

Arthur nodded slowly, his lips curving into a small smile. “Now then, go and get yourself a tray and bring it up here. Quickly please. And don’t drop it.”

Merlin stared at him in disbelief. “Um, Arthur, are you alright?”

“Fine. I’d just rather not eat alone tonight,” Arthur responded casually. 

Merlin had just started to turn away from the table before Arthur reached out an arm to stop him. “Merlin,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” he responded softly, still mildly confused. 

Arthur did not respond to him, because he instead wrapped his arms around the servant in a much needed embrace, his chin resting on Merlin’s bony shoulder. Merlin stood awkwardly in the hug, arms not quite sure what to do, before he set them gently against Arthur’s back. 

“You alright?” Merlin asked.

Arthur pulled away from the tender warmth of Merlin’s arms and stepped back. “Yes, I’m fine, Merlin. Now go on, before I change my mind.”

 

That was months ago and Arthur felt sick to his stomach staring down at the man who brought him sanity during his hectic days as ruler. It seemed that there was no sure way to heal him, not with Gaius’ practices anyway. 

Unless, he were to use another method.

No, he thought firmly, nothing good ever comes from magic. But he wasn’t sure if the belief was his own, or simply the remnants of his father’s rule drilled into his head. The only times that sorcery did anything of noble standing was if it healed, and if Arthur were to use his abilities, that was exactly what he would be doing. He did not even want to think about the results of Merlin’s death or the harrowing days in the castle afterwards. 

Arthur sighed with exasperation and leaned back in his chair, hands moving up to rub his tired eyes. Surely no one would question it if Merlin were to suddenly get better; they would blame Gaius’ miraculous hands, not the king’s. But the old man would be suspicious. He knew that there were very slim chances of Merlin’s health mending and if he were to get out of bed without so much as a scratch, he would not walk away from the situation silently. 

But he could not lose Merlin, not after the years they spent together. The benefits outweighed the consequences in that moment, and Arthur made a decision. He was going to save Merlin’s life. 

Not that he actually knew a spell to do the trick. Arthur was not exactly given years of schooling about sorcery under Uther’s command. But Arthur tried to heal as he had with all of his other incidents; he poured all of his emotion out from his body, letting it seep into his fingertips and feeling the warmth of his deepest passions bloom from his skin. He set his hands on Merlin’s chest, thankfully finding a steady, soft heartbeat, and gasped as his hands grew fiery and a soft glow danced along his skin, playing into the small crevices of his fingers and illuminating the shape of his knuckles. The sounds around him suddenly faded out; replaced by the rapid pounding in his ears and the faint hum and vibration of the sorcery he performed. His knees felt weak and all of his energy seemed to wreak mayhem in the living capsule he called his body, the only thing on his mind was the enchantment in his palms and the boy breathing under his steady hand, and all of the things that Merlin would do. He would wake up from this slumber and he would eat. He would greet the morning sun at dawn and watch the golden ship descend as the moon replaced it. He would go on quests through the mountains with Arthur by his side and he would sit with the king in the evenings as they feasted by candlelight without the stresses of the court. Perhaps he would take Gaius’ place, and perhaps he would seek new endeavors. But the important part was that Merlin would live. He would breathe Camelot’s air and he would tread on the grass that cloaked the Earth with ease and he would tease Arthur with his words and not mean a word of it. Merlin would live, all under Arthur’s hand.

When all of Arthur’s energy left his body and his hands grew cold once more, he slumped forward onto Merlin’s sleeping form, exhausted and drained from the process. He did not know that healing took so much power from the body in order to take effect. His thoughts turned in his mind unorganized and he was unable to gather the will to stand.

“…Arthur,” came a strained whisper.

The king immediately picked his head up and saw a pale, waking face staring back at him. Merlin had sat up, his elbows resting on his pillow in support of his frame, and he had taken the cool cloth off of his forehead and placed it on the table next to the bed. 

“You’re awake,” the king said, his voice dripping with relief, “Merlin, you’re awake.”

“Yeah, I uh, I noticed,” Merlin responded, sarcasm evident in his words.

“My God Merlin, you’re awake. Gaius!” Arthur called, his voice rising in volume.

The old man burst into the room, letting the door slam against the wall, shaking Merlin’s chambers. “What is it, is he alright?” he said quickly. Then he set eyes on Merlin sitting up and his features relaxed as he exhaled. “Thank heavens.”

Gaius moved to the bedside and set his hand on Merlin’s forehead. “His fever has broken. Merlin, how do you feel?” he said as he moved his hand to examine Merlin’s previously swollen throat.

“Fine. Really, just fine.”

“You don’t feel sick? Do you need to cough?”

“Gaius, truly, I feel fine. Great, even,” Merlin assured him. Arthur let a small smile slip and immediately turned away to hide it.

“Merlin, someone does not simply wake up from this kind of illness perfectly unscathed. Are you sure you feel alright?”

“Honestly, I feel absolutely amazing. Still a bit hungry though,” he added. 

Gaius narrowed his eyes and stared at Merlin for a minute, bewilderment obvious on his wrinkled face. “Well, you don’t have a fever anymore, and you’re throat is not swollen."

“I suppose he just healed on his own then. Merlin is strong, just as I said before,” Arthur said quickly, trying to diffuse suspicion. 

Gaius turned his gaze to Arthur. He was clearly still disbelieving in Merlin’s miraculous recovery and the king wondered if he suspected anything of Arthur. If he did, Arthur wondered with fear if Gaius would do anything about it. 

“Yes, I suppose he is,” Gaius finally agreed, though still frowning.

“Wonderful. So, Merlin, I need some armor that needs cleaning and my bed still needs to be made.”

“Arthur, I just woke up, do you think you could give me a little bit of a break?” Merlin pleaded, rubbing his eyes.

“Not a chance.”


End file.
